Seducing the Viscount

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Then you should,” his father retorted, his voice crisp but without the usual edge of censure. “Despite your obvious success at the tables, you will eventually weary of such an unpredictable occupation.” He held up a slender hand as Ian parted his lips. “I know it is difficult to accept when you are young, but we all must age, and I can assure you that old men prefer the comfort of hearth and home to smoky gambling hells.”

  Actually, it was not difficult at all. Ian’s return to Surrey had not been entirely inspired by his desire to discover his father’s past. More than a small part of his flight from London had been his increasing boredom with his life.

  Still, he was not yet prepared to admit, even to himself, that his life had lost any true enjoyment.

  Such thoughts were dangerous.

  With measured steps, he crossed to pour himself another whiskey.

  “Surely you cannot expect me to become a respectable barrister or man of business at this late stage?” he demanded as he turned to meet his father’s steady gaze. “Not only would I rather toss myself into the Thames, but there is not a person in all of London who would patronize my business.” He tossed down his drink. “Christ, I would have them hauled away as a loon if they did. Who would ever trust a hardened gamester?”

  Undisturbed by Ian’s mocking words, Norrington reached to pull a stack of papers off his desk.

  “There are other careers that you could consider.”

  Ian’s laughter echoed through the vast room. “Ah, yes, the church would no doubt be eager to have me reform my evil ways, or perhaps I could buy a pretty uniform and march around Brighton with the other soldiers.”

  “I was actually thinking of something rather more suited to your particular skills.”

  His father thought he possessed skills? Well, hell. Who knew?

  “And what skills would those be?”

  “Your ability to calculate odds and confront risk with a level head.” The older man shrugged. “There is also a measure of luck involved.”

  Ian narrowed his gaze, not entirely trusting his father’s unexpected interest in his life.

  “You do not intend for me to steal the Crown Jewels, do you?”

  “The thought had not entered my mind, no,” Norrington retorted dryly.

  “I can imagine no professions other than those in the criminal world that would need such skills.”

  “There is one.” His father held out the stack of papers, waiting with a stoic patience for Ian to grudgingly cross the floor to take them from him.

  “What are these?”

  “Information on my various investments.”

  Ian impatiently shifted through the various papers. “A shipment of tobacco from the Americas . . . a brick factory in Liverpool . . . a vineyard in France.” He lifted his head to stab his father with an impatient frown. “I do not understand.”

  “It is quite simple. Although the bulk of my fortune comes from the land rents and timber, I have discovered that there is a great deal of money to be made if a gentleman is willing to gamble upon certain investments.”

  Against his will, Ian’s attention was firmly captured. “Gamble?”

  Norrington was wise enough to reveal nothing more than a cool acceptance of Ian’s interest.

  “There is always the risk of failure or even outright deception.” His thin countenance hardened. “There is no lack of unscrupulous individuals who are willing to lighten the pockets of the gullible or greedy. It takes an enormous amount of research to ensure that a project is legitimate, not to mention worthy of my funds. I must calculate the rewards of my investment against the risk and judge if it will turn more of a profit than any number of other ventures I am offered. In other words, I will bet upon what I believe to be my trump card.”

  Ian could not deny a flare of excitement. He had, of course, known that many gentlemen discretely dabbled in various investments. Hell, Fredrick had made a tidy fortune in his numerous inventions and patents.

  Until this moment, however, it had always seemed a dull affair, fit more for accountants than gamblers.

  Now he realized that there was something rather . . . enticing at the thought of placing his money upon a speculation that might end in failure or make him rich beyond all imagining.

  “I’ll be damned,” he breathed.

  His father pointed toward the papers. “As you can see, I have only a handful of investments at the moment. It is a time-consuming business that I can only indulge in when my responsibilities to my estates allow me.” A faint smile curved his lips. “And to be perfectly honest, I do not possess the proper temperament to be truly successful.”

  It took less than a heartbeat for Ian to calculate the amount his father had invested and the current worth of the ventures. Such swift calculations, after all, were how he made his living.

  “These appear successful enough.”

  Norrington shrugged. “They reap only small rewards because they are secure projects that have only a minimal amount of risk involved. To truly make a fortune, one must possess the nerve to lose it all. A gentleman who has the heart of a gambler and the soul of a mathematician.” His dark gaze was pointed. “A gentleman like you, Ian.”

  Ian’s odd sense of anticipation was abruptly shattered by the ugly reminder.

  “A gentleman like me?” He tossed the papers back onto the polished desk. “You seem to forget, Father, I am no gentleman. I am a bastard.”

  Norrington regarded him with a cool, relentless expression. “I have not forgotten.”

  “Then you should realize that none of your prancing, blue-blooded friends would be overly anxious to have me as an investor.”

  “The world is changing, Ian, and those who are wise understand that money, not bloodlines, is the currency of the future.” There was a strangely awkward pause before his father cleared his throat. “Besides, I had thought we might consider a . . . partnership.”

  Ian regarded his father as if he had never seen him before. And indeed that was precisely how he felt.

  The gentleman conversing with him as if they were two equals most certainly could not be the same man who had treated him with barely concealed contempt for the past twenty-nine years.

  Folding his arms over his chest, Ian studied Norrington with unguarded suspicion.

  “Perhaps I have been mistaken all these years, Father, but I possessed the distinct impression that you would not trust me to drop a quid in the offering box.”

  An indefinable emotion rippled over the nobleman’s handsome countenance. “I cannot deny that I have allowed my distaste for your . . .”

  Ian’s lips twisted at his father’s delicate struggle for the appropriate word.

  “Gambling? Debauchery?” he helpfully supplied. “Straight path to hell?”

  Typically, the man refused to rise to Ian’s bait. “For your profligate lifestyle to influence my decisions regarding your support,” he continued smoothly. “I always presumed that any allowance I might offer would be tossed away at the tables and whorehouses.”

  Ian shrugged. “A very wise presumption. That is precisely what I should do with it.”

  “No, Ian, I am discovering that your gambling is not the sickness that infects so many gentlemen of London.” The older man offered a small smile. “It is merely a means to pass your days, is it not?”

  “It also allows me to pay my rent. At least on occasion.”

  Norrington grimaced at Ian’s pointed reminder. Unlike a legitimate son who could have expected a life of luxury as heir to the title, Ian had been forced to make his own way in the world.

  “Over the years I told myself that you would eventually sow your wild oats and that once you were respectably settled in a career, I would see to a settlement that would ensure your future.”

  Ian snorted. “You mean once I became the dutiful son you always desired?”

  “I realize now that I was no better than my father, Ian,” his father said, genuine regret in his voice. “I wanted you to liv
e the life that I thought best for you, not the one you preferred.”

  Ian tensed, his breath lodging in his lungs. Christ, what the devil was happening? His father was supposed to be the aloof, frigid stranger who had made him miserable as a child. A man with dark secrets that Ian was determined to uncover.

  He was not supposed to become some repentant man who offered a future to Ian filled with possibilities.

  Aware that Norrington was waiting for his reply, Ian was forced to clear his tight throat.

  “I never expected anything from you, Father.”

  “But you had every right to. I claimed you as my son and then abandoned you when you had most need of me. For that I am sorry.”

  Spinning on his heel, Ian struggled against the painful emotions that flared through him.

  He did not know how to react. How to bloody well feel.

  He was quite simply stunned.

  “If you are offering me money . . .”

  “Actually, I am offering both of us the opportunity to make a great sum of money,” Norrington overrode his stiff refusal. “If you will agree to my partnership.”

  For a long moment Ian regarded the tips to his boots, his mind as much in turmoil as his emotions. The cool logic of his brain warned him to tell his father to go to hell and be done with it. He had been disappointed too many times to easily trust. The less logical part of his brain, however, could not completely deny a pathetic need to prove he could be every bit as worthy of his father’s respect as a legitimate son.

  At last it was not his logic that made the decision. Hardly shocking. When did he ever allow logic to make his decisions? Instead it was his soul’s craving for the promise of a new, exciting adventure.

  His poor, tortured brain might not be capable of comprehending his father’s suspicious transformation, but it did understand that he had endured a stomachful of dark, smoky card rooms and meaningless couplings with women he could barely recall the next morning.

  Whether he was getting old, or merely bored, he was beginning to suspect that it was past time to retire his role as Casanova.

  Why not discover if this investment scheme suited his taste? He slowly turned to face his father.

  “What would it involve?” he demanded.

  Norrington’s lean features were unreadable. “I have the necessary wealth, but not the time to devote to discovering which investments might offer a lucrative reward for success. You could be an invaluable source of information.”

  “I know nothing of business.”

  “No, but you possess a rare talent for calculating odds. You also are capable of mingling among the dockworkers to determine if a ship and its crew are as reliable as they promise,” his father pointed out. “Or discovering if the gentlemen involved in the investments are addicted to gambling or other unsavory vices. Even those consortiums that are formed with the best intentions can be undone by a gentleman in sudden desperate need of funds.”

  Ian offered a thoughtful nod, realizing that he might indeed possess the sort of skills that would be useful. He possessed an uncanny sense for spotting a rook. Why would business be any different from cards?

  “Yes, I can well imagine.”

  “And if you are truly interested, I would be happy to share what I have learned of business over the years. In time, you would be able to take over the majority of the work necessary.”

  “I—” Ian broke off his words, not yet prepared to accept the hovering anticipation. Not until he had the opportunity to sort through the barrage of unfamiliar sensations. “I will give it some thought.”

  As if prepared for Ian’s wary suspicion, Lord Norrington offered a dip of his head.

  “Of course.”

  Ian set aside his glass, in desperate need of fresh air to clear his scattered thoughts.

  “If you will excuse me, I think I will take a turn through the garden before dinner.”

  Offering a bow, Ian turned and bolted through the door as if the devil was on his heels.

  Ella slipped from the shadows of the marble statues that lined the hallways as Ian charged from the library and headed toward the staircase. From the poor boy’s grim expression, it was impossible to determine if he were deep in thought or merely furious.

  Unable to stand her agonizing curiosity another moment, Ella darted across the hall and entered the library to regard her brother with a concerned frown.

  “Well, Norry? Did you speak with Ian?” she demanded.

  Moving with that smooth elegance she had always admired, Norrington seated himself at his desk and leaned back in the leather chair.

  “I promised that I would, Ella.”

  She barely resisted the urge to stomp her foot. Really, Norry could be the most aggravating creature.

  “Do not keep me in suspense. What did he say?”

  “He is considering my offer.”

  “Oh.” Ella could not hide her disappointment.

  She had been so certain that this was a perfect means of assisting Ian without his pride being injured.

  Over the years, she had offered small gifts and tentative loans that had been sternly rejected. Ian would not consider taking his aunt’s money. Not even if he were in desperate straits.

  And of course, there was no means for Viscount Norrington to share any of his numerous estates with a mere bastard. The entail would never allow such a thing.

  When Norry had mentioned his latest investment, Ella had hoped that this might be the means to allow Ian to discover a means to secure his future without the danger of the gambling hells.

  And perhaps, just as importantly, a means to feel more a part of his family.

  To have Ian working side by side with Norry . . . well, it was a dream that Ella had always nurtured, even when Ian could barely force himself to visit Rosehill.

  “He is intrigued,” her brother soothed.

  “Yes, but I had hoped—”

  “I believe in the end he will agree to my scheme, Ella.”

  A portion of her tension eased. “Do you really, truly believe?”

  He chuckled softly. “I really, truly believe.”

  “Thank you, Norry.” Moving forward, Ella halted directly beside the desk. “I know that this will not be easy for you.”

  “That was my initial thought as well.” Her brother glanced toward the stack of papers upon his desk. “Now, however, I find I am quite anticipating a partnership with Ian.”

  Ella blinked at the soft words. She better than anyone understood Norry’s solitary nature and his dislike for having others intrude into his privacy.

  “You are not simply attempting to make me feel better?” she demanded.

  He templed his fingers beneath his chin, a thoughtful expression on his handsome countenance.

  “Actually, I am not at all certain why I did not consider such an offer before this,” he confessed. “Ian’s connections with the less savory aspects of London society will offer an invaluable insight to those gentlemen who approach me with various opportunities. And, of course, once he has mastered the basic concepts of business, his sheer nerve will allow him to become a far more successful investor than myself.” An unexpectedly proud smile curved his lips. “There are few gentlemen more suited for this particular career.”

  Ella was careful not to react to her brother’s rare display of emotion. It would only discomfort him.

  Instead, she heaved a small sigh, her thoughts turning to the young man who had forever altered the destiny of Rosehill. Whether he would ever know the truth or not.

  “All I desire is for him to be happy.”

  Norry’s lips twisted. “A rare gift.”

  “Rare indeed.”

  For nearly an hour after dinner, Mercy searched through the darkened gardens, and even the hedge maze, before the faint scent of cheroot smoke led her down a narrow path to the elaborate gazebo that overlooked the lake.

  More than once she warned herself to turn back. She had no reasonable excuse to be chasing after Ian at su
ch a late hour. Especially after he had gone to such an effort to be alone.

  Stupidly, her compulsion to be near him would not be denied.

  Throughout the evening, he had been distant—not angry, but more . . . distracted. As if he were contemplating some great puzzle. And then with a muttered apology he had slipped from the parlor into the garden.

  She needed to assure herself that he had not disappeared into the gathering fog.

  “Ian?”

  There was the sound of a footfall, and a dark shadow abruptly appeared in the doorway of the gazebo.

  “I am here.”

  She pressed a hand to her suddenly racing heart. In the glow of the torches set throughout the garden, his smoldering beauty seemed harder, more potent. Dangerous.

  “Oh.”

  Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb he regarded her with a brooding frown.

  “It is late, Mercy. What the devil are you doing roaming the grounds?”

  His overt lack of welcome should have sent her back to the comfort of her rooms. It was obvious that his strange mood had not improved.

  Her feet, unfortunately, seemed to take on a mind of their own, and rather than retreating, she found herself climbing the shallow steps of the gazebo.

  “I came in search of you.”

  His aquiline nose flared, as if drawing in her scent as she neared. “Why?”

  Why? Well, that was the question, was it not?

  Thankfully, she had no interest in pondering the compulsion that had led her on his trail. Not when she could pretend that it was nothing more than common human charity that had prompted her search.

  “I was . . . concerned.”

  A dark, disbelieving brow arched at her explanation. “For me?”

  “You were very quiet this evening. I thought perhaps something was troubling you.”

  His lips twisted, the golden eyes the color of aged whiskey in the flickering light.

  “I suppose you could say that I have something upon my mind.”

  Halting close enough that she could catch the scent of sandalwood and clean male skin, Mercy studied his grim expression.